


Conflict of Interest

by nein



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bodyguard x Hitman!AU, M/M, Oikawa is a singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/pseuds/nein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi Hajime is paid to protect Oikawa Tooru<br/>Sugawara Koushi is paid to kill Oikawa Tooru.</p><p>This will not end well (for Oikawa Tooru)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beatboxbmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatboxbmo/gifts).



> Hello! It's an honour to write a gift for you, I've enjoyed so much for your work ;A:
> 
> I'm sorry my life is a mess and this is incomplete (you really don't deserve this)! But I will upload the rest within 12 hours ahhhhhhh I haven't gotten to the good part yet. //bows ten times. Enjoy!

Iwaizumi is hurrying backstage with his phone in one hand and a _cafe grande_ matcha frappuccino from Starbucks in the other. He is striding past racks of prepared costumes and open boxes of electrical equipment, trying to balance both while trying to remain calm. Calm and patient and dilligent. There’s Terushima and Futakuchi rehearsing dance steps in the half darkness and Tanaka stretching against the wall. He’s sure Akaashi is everywhere at once organising everything and anything, that capable man. When Asahi rolls a gigantic camera through the entire mess, Iwaizumi nonchalently kicks a stray lead out of the way as he speeds past. Kuroo’s voice occupies the entire cramped space as he repeats his lines during the final sound check from somewhere above them. Outside, far far away from here, scratching at the concert doors, is a horde of fans clamering to get in, all screaming one name.

And somewhere, inside here, amidst all the chaos and panic, Oikawa Tooru is sleeping, waiting for his matcha frappuccino.

Iwaizumi wants to strangle him.

His earpiece buzzes and he immediately sharpens his hearing to exclude background noise.

“Iwaizumi, where’s Oikawa? Makeup’s waiting,” Akaashi spoke, voice crackling over the static.

His grip tightens on the Starbucks. “I’m getting him. He’ll be there in 10.”

“Hurry, doors are opening in 5, concert starts in 30.”

“Thanks, gotcha.” Iwaizumi swipes to a messaging app and angrily types out with one thumb -

_Wake up, I’m coming for you._

Kuroo has stopped speaking and some instrumental from Oikawa’s latest album is playing instead. The resounding bass from industrial strength speakers thumps through his veins as he side steps into corridors with low ceilings and cheap fluroescent lights blinking sporradically. He walks past Aone from security and Hinata from crew, then almost into another rack of costumes and past another guy from security-

Spinning around, Iwaizumi looks back at the guy who just walked past, catching a glimpse of pale hair disappearing around a corner.

Iwaizumi Hajime knows every single person involved in this concert, every subcontractor, every hired hand, every volunteer and every last minute addition into the every changing crew. But Iwaizumi Hajime did not recognise the face just then. 

Suddenly, the drink feels very cold in his hand.

When he reaches Oikawa’s room, he slides his phone into his pocket, forgoes knocking and twists the knob open.

The room is empty.

He rakes his eyes over the makeup kits strewn across the table, Oikawa’s earphones knotted on his chair, his previous clothes on the floor. He sees his own face in the brightly-lit mirrors and the ostentatious green of the frappuccino mockingly resting in his hand. And in the corner - 

In the corner, hidden by the open door, is Oikawa Tooru, drooling, unconscious and tightly bound by a coil of rope.

_What the fuck_

Iwaizumi almost drops the green travesty onto the floor. But he doesn’t, instead squatting down to squint at the sight and placing the drink next to the placid Oikawa. Immediately with one arm, he tugs at Oikawa’s legs to lie him down flat before rolling him on his side and squishing his cheeks to open his mouth.

There’s nothing lodges in his throat (unfortunately) and the bastard is breathing (also unfortunately) so Iwaizumi grabs him by the ankles, raises them up and plonks them on top of the nearest chair while hoping that the blood will reach his brain soon enough.

Sitting back, Iwaizumi Hajime reconsiders the sight before him.

Oikawa Tooru, nation’s most adored, most hated singer, drooling, unconscious and tightly bound by a coil of rope -

_Oh. Yeah._

Iwaizumi extracts his swiss army knife from inside his suit pocket and traces along the lines until he locates the tight knot around Oikawa’s wrists. It takes 3 slices before the coil snaps and loosens.

Oikawa begins to stir.

“Oi, wake up.” Iwaizumi taps him on the shoulder, heart beginning to race, panic rising where calm efficiency once stood. He should be calling for an ambulance, or Akaashi, someone. Someone else should be here. Reality is quickly chasing out the sanity which has been tightly wound around his mind before.

“Wake up, wake up, Oikawa, Trashykawa, Tooru.” Oikawa’s eyes do not open and Iwaizumi begins to shake him. “Bastard. You make me walk 3 blocks to get Starbucks for what? Some frozen cappuccino thing?”

“Green Tea Frappuccino?” Oikawa blearily squeezes one eye open, “You got it?”

Iwaizumi restrains his instinct for bodily harm and tries his best to be professional. “What’s your name?” 

“Kageyama Tobio,” he replies with the straightest face, one hand waving for the drink just beyond his reach.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Iwaizumi slaps that hand away.

“Fine, fine,” Oikawa winces, “Oikawa Tooru, best selling singer of 2016, genius, playboy, philantro-

“Where are you, what’s my name?”

“Iwa-chan, why so serious. I’m fine,” Oikawa sighs, “Backstage at my concert, which is just about to start isn’t it. I should get going.”

“No you shouldn’t,” Iwaizumi presses him down, “What on earth happened - “

Suddenly, his radio buzzes, “Iwaizumi, where the hell is Oikawa-“

Oikawa swipes the radio from his belt with lightning quickness, “Right here, Akaashi-san~”

Akaashi’s sigh is audible to be heard by Iwaizumi, even when Oikawa is trying to cover it with his palm, “Please make your way over to make-up, like, right now.”

“Yes sir,” he replies cheerily.

Iwaizumi squints at Oikawa as he clicks the radio silent and looks at Iwaizumi with the brightest, fakest smile since that time he had to film the pocky commercial.

Iwaizumi crosses his arms, “I’m not okay with this. it feels like someone is trying to kill you.”

“Oh someone is trying to kill me,” Oikawa replies in the tone of someone announcing their engagement, or the successful purchase of a car. “I’ll tell you after the concert.”

Between the two of them, at least one person is crazy. Iwaizumi is really hoping its Oikawa. Normal people don’t respond to murder attempts like this. “Aren’t you worried,” he asks, absolutely deadpan.

“Nope. I have bodyguard after all,” Oikawa sing-songs, like a child about to embark on a field trip.

Suddenly, Iwaizumi Hajime realises that his job just became a lot, lot harder.

 

* * *

 

During the concert, Iwaizumi watches Oikawa’s flimsy dances and saccharine winks from stage left and occasionally strays to the sea of swaying mint green lights filling the entire stadium.

Nervousness sweeps his throat whenever Oikawa saunters too close to the crowd, or when the lights dim out of cue, or when he trips on stray wiring. Needless to say, Iwaizumi feels extremely relieved when the concert rolls to an end without a hitch.

The usual gets thrown during the encore: paper airplanes, winnie-the-pooh plushies, bouquets of roses, bras, the occasional panties. Oikawa bows in all four cardinal directions and grins into the masses as the rain of miscellaneous gifts continue to pelt him. Iwaizumi silently counts down the seconds before he runs backstage and prays to Akaashis’s deity (whoever they are, they must be extremely capable) that nothing will happen.

He jinxes himself because right after his _amen_ a _fucking discus_ shoots out of the crowd, smashes Oikawa’s microphone into his teeth and sends the stadium into silence.

_What the fuck_

Then the screaming begins.

There’s Akaashi yelling for the lights to be dimmed, Kuroo reassuring the crowd over the the main speakers, and Iwaizumi running the hell forward to grab Oikawa and all but drag him backstage.

“I think they chipped a tooth,” Oikawa whines, loudly into his ear.

_I don’t care_ Iwaizumi wants to reply as he pushes him into a chair. A crowd immediately gathers, Futakuchi’s already jeering and Akaashi has retrieved a first aid kit (the _competence_ of that man, honestly) and Hinata is loudly wondering if that was an anti-fan.

Iwaizumi pauses, thinks, considers the situation then decides on a course of action.

He quickly finds Aone and taps him on the shoulder, “Keep an eye on him, I’m taking a look.”

Aone replies with a solid nod and Iwaizumi turns his back on the scene.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi considers the exits available from the hall, visualises the arc of the (fucking, what, how) disc of athletic metal, estimates an origin, then makes a swift calculation.

When he reaches fire exit E, the door is just closing and Iwaizumi catches the briefest glimpse of light hair. He sprints, catches the door with his fingertips, surges forward to jump over the railings, and onto the concrete below, just in front of his primary suspect. 

Light hair, surprised brown eyes. Iwaizumi gauges his stance, his position, and watches the most minute flinch in his shoulders. He rests for half a second before darting forward, swinging the meanest right hook he knows how.

Suspect takes a step back, swiftly raising a palm and slapping his wrist to the side in a move of utmost efficiency. When Iwaizumi stumbles forward, face close, his eyes curve in to a smile. In the seconds of pause, Iwaizumi reads confidence, experience and, surprised amusement.

_Well_ Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow, reconsiders his options and runs back in.

The other man’s hands are as fluid as water, redirecting Iwaizumi’s punches away, above, and back towards him. However, his body is as immovable as a mountain, staying in place, barely swaying against the force of Iwaizumi’s fists. 

“That style,” Iwaizumi pants, trying to hold back a grin, “Wing Chun huh.”

The man smiles, and for a moment, Iwaizumi is affronted by the _niceness_ of it, all sunshine and rainbows.

“You fight well too, as a military man,” he speaks, voice light, dancing off the concrete.

“Huh,” Iwaizumi blinks, right as the man dashes forward, fist darting up towards his stomach. Iwaizumi barely has time to fall back, reduce the impact, but he does have time to grab onto a thin wrist, fingers clutching tightly like a vice. When he falls, he drags the other man down, braces for impact, then immediately rolls, pinning him down with his forearm across his chest.

“How the fuck do you know?”

He shrugs, uncommonly nonchalant given his position, and smiles again. “I can tell. But tell me more,” his forearm flexes under Iwaizumi’s grip, “Japan doesn’t have an active combat military, so where have you been?” 

Iwaizumi notices the legs moving too late, only registering the blinding pain in his back and blurred spin as ceiling replaced floor in his peripheral. 

A fist collides with his sternum and another with spleen, and then yet another at his thigh that leaves his leg cramping.

Iwaizumi yells in pain, hand darting out to hold his leg.

The man’s face leans closer and Iwaizumi squints at the gentleness in the brown eyes, the mole beneath his left eye, and the curve of his lip. “Fucker,” he spits, limbs unable to be moved past the pain, “That was dirty.”

He receives a smirk in reply, “A win is a win.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi smiles, “You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” the man hums,, shifting his weight from leg to leg, “Sorry I would love to talk, but I got places to be.” 

“Another pop star to kill?”

He laughs, “Oikawa Tooru is a special case. Rest up. I’ll see you soon.” He throws a wink before turning around and skipping down the steps. Iwaizumi does not stare at his backside.

Letting out a long, sustained sigh, Iwaizumi leans back, spread eagle against the cold concrete, waiting for the pain to subside while trying to calm the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He really should be frustrated, or angry, or even weirded out, but all that was running through his head was the thought: _That was a damn good fight_.


	2. Chapter 2

Life returns to normal after that, mostly. Iwaizumi pays closer attention to their surroundings and leads Oikawa away from crowds. He learns to find secluded backstreets and locate blind spots while simultaneously squashing doubts about the stability of his employment. The fans are still screaming like a malfunctioning GPS, tracing Oikawa across Tokyo more accurately than any of Google’s satellites. Iwaizumi still has to locate and run for the nearest Starbucks at sporadic times and Oikawa still demands morning massages and evening organic masks. Sometimes Iwaizumi finds himself at midnight, cooking oatmeal and beating egg whites with measured amounts of vinegar for some ridiculous dermatological benefit.

Iwaizumi watches Oikawa smile when he watches him outwit Ushijima on national television (outwit as in out-talk) and frown when he loses a dance battle to some up and coming prodigy (whose name, which starts with ‘K’ and ends in ‘Yama’, Oikawa banned all mention of). In between Oikawa’s bustling schedule of bright lights and calculated poses, Iwaizumi mind wanders to the healing bruises across his torso and the time-stopping thrill of the fight with the stranger.

The next attempt changes Iwaizumi’s perceptions completely.

It’s a standard afternoon when he ushers Oikawa through Nippon TV’s back door in the Shiodome district. He’s whining about hair products and popularity ratings and employing various techniques to bait Iwaizumi into a compliment (which has worked a grand total of once) when suddenly, Oikawa trips.

Iwaizumi turns around to comment but then something blitzes past Oikawa’s cheek at a high whistle and drills into the door behind them. Concrete splinters and metal ricochets off the floor and Iwaizumi tackles Oikawa and throws them both down right up against their car.

Another bullet pierces the ground where they were, then another through the car window above them, and yet another which bounces underneath the car and out next to them. Iwaizumi diving into his pockets for the car keys and jamming his thumb in the ‘unlock’ button before pushing Oikawa inside and himself inside.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ Iwaizumi swears, twisting on the ignition and slamming his foot down on the accelerator, jerking the car forwards. There’s a bullet on his seat that’s digging into him so he growls and shoves it into his pocket.

For a moment there’s total silence except for the mechanical whir of the car. Total silence. That is certainly not normal. 

“What,” Iwaizumi snarls, glacning into the rear view mirror at Oikawa. He does a double take when Oikawa’s not in his usual seat, instead across and leaning towards something with a curious look. 

Iwaizumi twists around. In the middle of Oikawa’s seat, sitting on top of the polished leather was a small box gift-wrapped with soft cream paper. That was not there when they left. In the time it takes for him to think _oh my god_ , roll down the windows and throw out the _bomb/grenade/explosive fuck fuck fuck_ into a secluded alleyway, he has involuntarily read the pastel pink post-it note stuck on top.

Written in neat, rounded letters was the phrase:

_Did I get you?_

 

* * *

 

 

The explosion makes it onto the news under the headline _MYSTERIOUS BOMBING IN SHIODOME_ but it’s by a stroke of luck or some extraneous super-powerful super-shady super-maybe-probably-illegal forces that it does not get linked back to them. The bullet-grilled car is squatting guiltily in Oikawa’s private garage and Iwaizumi is mildly panicking every time a random journalist materialises before them (to ask about Oikawa’s new drama, or hair colour, or relationship details but Iwaizumi can never be too certain).

Unlike Iwaizumi, Oikawa is completely unconcerned. He comments on how the previous events would be an excellent addition to his memoir and demands a lavender scented bubble bath (why lavender when he wanted vanilla last week) with a dismissive wave.

Iwaizumi considers snipping some of his hair in his sleep. Or throwing him out a window. Whatever induces the most damage.

 

* * *

 

 

On his day off, he practises old fighting routines and nods in satisfaction when his muscles slide into the movements with familiarity. After lunch he googles _’is it normal for pop stars to be murdered’_ and discovers nothing relevant except for American conspiracy theories on presidential assassinations. In the evening, he’s angrily doing his laundry when he shakes his trousers and out drops a bullet. He stares at it as it falls onto the tiles with a decisive click before remembering, yeah, he pocketed that one. Picking it up, Iwaizumi rolls the bullet in his palm, feeling the heaviness of the metal and eyeing the length. He ignores the itches of a memory from a past life and the thrill of a youth long forgotten. Something tugs at the recesses of his mind, a gentle shift to a life before his current job, to uncertain terrains and the roar of airplanes. He holds the bullet between his thumb and forefinger, looks at the length again, before recognising the bullet. _Fuck_.

They weren’t just shot at, they were _sniped at_ , by a restricted-production, super-expensive, military-grade, long distance sniper rifle. 

_Fuck_

Worry and fear rush forward before receding, overtaken by an immense wave of anticipation surging through his blood, straightening his spine and urging his heart to attention.

Looking at the scars on his hands, Iwaizumi presses them into his forehead and closes his eyes, ignoring, pretending that he does not miss the battles which created them. 

_Fuck_

 

* * *

 

 

Iwaizumi runs into him again when fetching an order for a Venti Iced Caramel Macchiato. He’s taking a shortcut through an tree-lined alley in Ni-Chome when he rushes past a flash of grey hair and spins around.

“You,” he accuses, jabbing the ridiculously oversized drink in his direction.

The man blinks owlishly, pausing in his step and dancing on the the balls of his feet before turning around. Iwaizumi takes in the dark grey suit, finely pressed and subtly lined with a light, intricate pattern. He doesn’t have to feel the material to know its expensive, superior to his own default black. Iwaizumi squares his shoulders, digs his hands into his pockets and flings the bullet across the distance between them

“Me?” Expensive Suit pouts, catching the projectile in a swift arc.

“Yours?”

He glances at it curiously. “Mine.”

“Winchester Magnum.”

The man blinks slowly, again, and Iwaizumi for a moment focuses on the roundness of his eyes and the grey lining his pupils. Suddenly, he bursts into a grin, shoulders relaxing. “Close, .338 Lapua Magnum.”

“Yeah? I could tell from the barrel.”

“Mhm,” he pockets the bullet, and for a moment there’s silence except for the industrial hum of a city in circuit.

“Do you,” Iwaizumi begins, voice stumbling into their space, “Want to sit down for a bit? To talk?” His voice escapes rougher than he intended, as if to compensate for the loss from their previous dealings.

Thankfully it doesn’t snag their conversation, and Expensive Suit Wing Chun guy strides over to a roadside convenience store, sitting down on one of the short tiny chairs made for instant ramen consumption and midnight rounds of cards with strangers rather than daylight conversation.

When Iwaizumi notices the minute flicker to the cooled drinks section, he places Oikawa’s ridiculous drink and slides it across the table. 

“Here, have this. The ice is going to melt so I might as well buy another one before Oikawa complains.” _Smooth_

He smiles again (that man really does an awful lot of that) and Iwaizumi does not think of how honest it looks. When their hands touch, Iwaizumi feels the roughness of his fingertips, tough from exercise and use and his heart stretches a little more. There is no falsehood in well-earned callouses. Only respect.

He takes a long indulgent slurp, eyes closing and mouth sighing in contentment. “Thanks.” 

“So Lapua huh,” Iwaizumi gives a low whistle, “The minimum effective distance for that is, I believe, one kilometre?”

“One point two,” he tilts his head, as if sharing a secret, “I shot it from one point five.”

This time it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to blink and stare. His mind races through 1.5 kilometres of sky scraping skyline and city turbulence and how narrowly that bullet missed Oikawa’s cheek. He looks at the pale fingers and the arms hidden by the suit, the arms that could hold a rifle with more stability than 99% of all soldiers on the field. The fingers currently wrapped around this Venti Caramel Macchiato from Starbucks.

“Your talent is wasted on Oikawa,” Iwaizumi deadpans, “If he didn’t trip, then -“

“Bam,” he pouts, mouth over the straw, “perfect headshot.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t even wince. The dream of shooting Oikawa is not an unfamiliar one. “Perfect headshot,” he echoes, “from 1.5km. Job Completed.”

Iwaizumi pauses, watches the pedestrians past, looks back at the store clerk engrossed in a magazine then leans over, “Please don’t actually kill him, I’m going to be out of a job.”

“But that’s my job.”

_I like your job_ Iwaizumi thinks, a little petulantly. “We have a problem.”

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another sip.

“Why does anyone want him dead anyway?”

He raises a finger to his lips and winks, god damn winks like Oikawa to a crowd a fangirls and Iwaizumi feels something melt internally despite himself. “Shh, I can’t say. Client Confidentiality.”

“How inconvenient.”

“Indeed.”

“You ruined the car though.”

“Sorry, it was in the way. Next time give me a clean shot?”

“No,” Iwaizumi smiles, “But I liked that car.”

“My deepest apologies,” he bows, with a flourishing hand and a deep descent of his head.

“But honestly, I don’t want to lose my job.”

“I can give you a job?” His eyes flick up to meet Iwaizumi’s.

“What,” Iwaizumi freezes.

“We need people like you all the time, there’s always more jobs that people that could do them,” he stirs the drink with the straw, “Especially experienced people like you Iwaizumi-kun.”

Iwaizumi blinks one more time before choking, “What, wait, - how.”

“Oops, got to go,” the man grins, sitting up, “Places to go, pop stars to kill.”

Iwaizumi stays seated, on that tiny plastic convenience store stool, staring at his back as it retreats and weaves through the crowd.

A job huh.

_Wait what._

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon after filming a Subaru commercial (which involved a lot of posing and very little driving) Oikawa grabs bottled water from his bag and twists it open.

Iwaizumi was paying enough attention to register the lack of the distinctive _click_ , which meant that the bottle was unsealed, which meant -

He dashes across the set just in time to snatch the bottle right after Oikawa takes a swig. When he sniffs the opening there is the distinct odour of bitter almonds.

He looks at Oikawa, “Did you swallow.”

Oikawa shrugs, “So.”

That afternoon is the afternoon in which a video emerges of a body guard performing the Heimlich Manoeuvre on Oikawa Tooru. It quickly rises to the top and stays on the front page for a  week.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday evening the car goes missing.

On Monday morning the car returns. Completely fixed.

Pastel blue post-it on the steering wheel

_Thanks for the drink - Sugawara_

_P.S I saw the video. Good job!_

Iwaizumi folds and places in his wallet. Something feels unbalanced, but it’s definitely not his heart.

 

* * *

 

On another day off, he runs into an old friend by the name of Sawamura Daichi, who conveniently, is also a lawyer.

Iwaizumi coaxes him into a coffee break under the pretence of ‘catching up’ which is really just half provocations about married life and reminisces about high school volleyball. When there’s a lull in the conversation, Iwaizumi coughs and speaks in a voice he hopes won’t give away his deliberation. “By the way, hypothetically, is someone you’re looking after is in danger, how obligated are you to help them.”

Sawamura narrows his eyes, “Did you ask me out just to get legal advice?”

Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck, “It’s… been on my mind.”

The Captain Sawamura Arm Cross makes an appearance. “This doesn’t sound very hypothetical.” 

“Well,” Iwaizumi pauses, trying not to be deterred, “Things have been happening to Oikawa and I’m just a little apprehensive.”

Sawamura raises an eyebrow, “Things. Aren’t you his body guard? Protecting him is within your duty of care.”

Iwaizumi really wants to say _murder attempts is a bit too much isn’t it_ but instead says, “I don’t have a contract and he pays me in cash. If I walk out one day and he gets hurt it shouldn’t be a problem right.”

The Captain Sawamura Stare is back too and Iwaizumi sends a prayer for anyone who has to face him in court. “The law doesn’t work like that.”

“So…” Iwaizumi places his palms open on the table.

Sawamura closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Look, the best possible situation is this: let’s pretend we never saw each other today so that I don’t get pulled into the witness booth and you don’t get sued for planning your employer’s demise.”

Iwaizumi frowns, “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Oikawa refuses to wear a chain vest because ‘it’s unflattering for his frame’ and Iwaizumi imagines a universe where a person could accidentally run into a knife.

If management pulls him to court he could show them the receipt and claim that he tried. No negligence, or breach of duty and, reasonable care was taken, yada yada insert legal jargon.

He wonders if Sawamura will be willing to defend him if he took precautions.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning when Iwaizumi is breezing down the deserted roads somewhere around Ikebukuro. Oikawa is dozing peacefully in the back with a mint-green eye mask carefully applied over his hair.

There’s a red light ahead, with another car already waiting in the next lane. When Iwaizumi approaches, he eyes the golden bull on the back, the capital letters and the elegant sharp curves along its frame. His mind procures the model immediately (a 2014 Lamborghini Aventador) and he wonders what inbred child of what politician would be up so early.

When he rolls up, Iwaizumi squints through the windows and sees -

Sugawara. Wide awake and waving. He’s clearly comfortable in the leather seats and extended controls and Iwaizumi squashes the flare of jealousy that arises (a _Lamborghini_ ). He stares a bit too long at the fingerless leather gloves and the slim t-shirt Sugawara is wearing today. He also almost waves back as if he was passing the neighbour postman, not his employer’s assassin.

Without dropping eye contact, one of Sugawara’s hands move off the wheel, shift under Iwaizumi’s line of sight and raises a gun, pointing it directly at Oikawa.

Sugawara’s revs his engines loudly and Oikawa stirs, “Iwaiizummmi, I’m trying to sleep.”

He wants to throw him out the car.

The light turns green and Iwaizumi fucking _floors_ it.

This is a second-hand company Toyota up against a fucking Lamborghini.

Iwaizumi’s grinning and he’s pretty sure Sugawara’s grinning too as they race neck to neck in as the highway shifts.

Sugawara may have the car but fuck him sideways if he thinks he can win against a guy who knows Tokyo’s backstreets like the back of his hand. _Fuck him._

 

* * *

 

Sugawara definitely won that race (who was he kidding, a _lambourghini_ ) but Oikawa’s still alive so Iwaizumi thinks he won overall.

Even though he had to buy a new tire to replace the old, bullet-ridden one.

 

* * *

 

 

One summer evening Iwaizumi walks into Oikawa’s apartment just to see a janitor jump out of the window of their 27th story penthouse apartment. A grey-haired, super athletic janitor.

He immediately checks the bedroom but Oikawa is fast asleep in bed, assuredly alive and breathing so Iwaizumi frowns and backs out.

He spends half the night listening for sounds of beeping, checking carbon monoxide and radiation levels with a convenience-store-bought detector, wiping down the rims of all their teacups for poison and tapping all the floorboards like a blind man. He even looks in all the cupboards for poisonous spiders and snakes (he might’ve read a Sherlock in the past day or two). Finding nothing, he goes to bed exhausted and confused. 

And bolts awake to a scream loud enough to wake the grandmothers in the nursing home 2 blocks over. Iwaizumi throws his covers off and rushes barefoot across Oikawa’s massive apartment and up the stairs to his private bathroom where high-pitched yelps continue to raid his ears.

When he bursts in, Oikawa’s clamouring in the bathroom like a fish out of water and when he notices Iwaizumi, he screeches and tries to cover himself.

“What,” Iwaizumi grunts, already rolling his sleeves up, “there’s nothing to see.”

“There’s _everything_ to see.” Oikawa splutters, then lets loose a clearly exaggerated whine when Iwaizumi bends over and scoops him out (the floor is surprisingly slippery and he makes a mental note to buy a bath mat later).

“What hurts.”

“Tailbone, I think I - ow, ow, ow, ow, _ow_!” the pitch increases to deafening heights when Iwaizumi dumps him on the couch.

“Lie down, don’t put weight on it and stay put. I’ll get you painkillers.” 

Once Oikawa is sedated Iwaizumi goes back to examine the bathroom. Stretching out his hand to touch the bath surface, Iwaizumi frowns when his finger slides fluidly across. He strokes the floor again, then the sides, then the edges.

Someone had lined the entire surface of the bathtub _with soap_.

Iwaizumi drops his hand and stares in disbelief. So much for high speed car chases and hyper-accurate sniper rifles. The one thing that causes the most damage to Oikawa Tooru is _soap_.

When he leans down again he catches a flash of purple behind Oikawa’s high-tech sprinkling toilet.

It’s a pastel purple post-it note decorated with a white gel pen in round cursive. Upon it is written:

_Did it work?_

Despite himself, Iwaizumi smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Oikawa may be slightly incapacitated for a month but Akaashi is still super effective and inundates his schedule with radio interviews and voice acting stints and talk shows where everyone is conveniently seated. And so Iwaizumi’s job continues.

And continues, without much of a hitch.

 

* * *

 

Nothing happens for 2 weeks, 

To Oikawa’s total ignorance, Iwaizumi is so tense he could press out diamonds with his arsehole. 

He’s practising how to disarm a man when a window cleaner descends right in front of him, holding a squeegee in one hand and waving with the other.

Blinking into the morning light, Iwaizumi waves back. He goes to the balcony and rests his forearms over the bannister. Good morning

Morning! Sugawara replies chirpily, harnesses tight around his abdomen and support string taut. He actually has a bucket tied to one hip and a mess of cleaning (killing?) equipment hanging from the other.

Iwaizumi’s eyes trace the ropes up to the roof and then brush down and examines the dizzying world below them. “We’re 27 stories up,” he squints.

“Ahh, I’m used to it. I had to parachute into North Korea just last week-“

“Parachuting?” Iwaizumi leans closer, just a bit and it almost feels like old friends exchanging stories at a bar. “Whatever for?” 

“A client’s brother got stranded, killed the wrong cow or something. I had to jump in at night then escort him out in a fishing boat.” Sugawara wrinkles his nose and takes an exaggerated sniff of his arm, “I think I still smell like fish, even after trying some of Oikawa’s lavender stuff.”

_Wha-_ Iwaizumi want to ask about the cow, or how on earth did he get his hands on Oikawa’s custom concocted vegan bath bombs, or maybe even what Sugawara would normally smell like (blood haha, yes, blood and potassium cyanide sure, certainly not some nice enticing cologne) - but what comes out of his mouth instead is -

“How high were you dropped?”

The grin that swipes over Sugawara’s face is infectious, and Iwaizumi resists reflecting his skipping heart on his own face.

“4800 metres, nothing too high.”

“Yeah? I had to do 6000 over Siberia once.”

“ _Siberia?_ ” Sugawara leans over, “What happened there.”

Iwaizumi sighs wistfully, a gentle push of air through dry lips. “It’s a long story. Come in for tea?” He looks over his shoulder, “The devil spawn awakes in 14 minutes.”

“Sure,” Sugawara stretches his legs, pushing himself away from the building and Iwaizumi could almost sigh at the backdrop of cityscape horizons and summer sunrise weaving into the strands of his wispy hair.

“Careful of the gifts though,” Iwaizumi warns, “Some fans sent him a giant plushie.”

“Huh,” Sugawara remarks, looking up at the 2 metre tall soft toy lying sadly in the lounge room, “It certainly is… very big.”

“If you can get rid of it I’ll love you forever,” Iwaizumi grumbles, filling the kettle.

“Hm,” Sugawara replies, contemplatively.

When Sugawara jumps over the balcony rails one cup of Earl Grey later, Iwaizumi’s mind instinctively recalls fairy-tales of climbing princes and princesses locked in towers.

(Would he be the princess? Or the witch?)

Before he slaps himself for the digression, Oikawa screeches, declaring to the world that he has fallen off his king-sized bed, again.

(Oikawa is definitely the princess, but Sugawara is not his prince.)

 

* * *

 

On Iwaizumi’s next day off, he receives a distressed call from Oikawa.

“KITTY-CHAN CAUGHT ON FIRE,” came the wail.

“The teddy bear?” Iwaizumi perks up. That was fast.

“YES,” Oikawa declares, “GET ME A NEW ONE.”

“No,” Iwaizumi answers flatly, then hangs up.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi steps in next to Aone, the both of them watching Oikawa spin sugar with words. “You like being a bodyguard yeah?”

Aone looks at him, raises an eyebrow, then swings his hand out to slap Futakuchi in the face just as he skips past.

“No running in the studio,” he comments flatly.

Futakuchi shoots him a thumbs up before walking away.

Iwaizumi is impressed. “Say, you wouldn’t have a brother by any chance.”

"No." Aone replies.

"Oh."

Silence hovers between them for a minute.

Aone clears his throat. “But Yamamoto has a little sister.”

“What.”

 

* * *

 

 

Yamamoto Akane is super fierce.

She is able to tackle her brother into a choke hold and trip a Russian model twice her height into submission.

She also knows the phone number of every major broadcasting company, the Instagram account of every A-list celebrity and the unspoken rules only a veteran of the industry should know (like how one does not simply walk into Nekomata’s office without an appointment without bringing dried mackerel).

When Iwaizumi casually mentions Oikawa in conversation she replies, “Oh, yes. The troublesome one.”

_Excellent._

 

* * *

 

“Akane would make a very good bodyguard,” Iwaizumi remarks to Akaashi one afternoon.

“Hn,” Akaashi replies, squinting at the schedule of one Bokuto Koutarou.

When Akaashi looks away to rearrange a new time for [GATSBY COMMERCIAL #4], Iwaizumi slips her business card into the pages of his planner.

 

* * *

 

On his last day off, Iwaizumi Hajime looks at his own apartment, barely lived in and blandly decorated with the necessities of banal survival. He thinks of his life, of Starbucks runs and organising midnight bubble baths and compares it to free falling at dizzying heights, the rush of a fist fight and the roar of a super car engine.

He thinks of soft hair at dawn and pouting lips over a green straw. Of calloused fingertips and fluid arms dancing with his own.

In the end, the decision was simple.

 

* * *

 

The last evening he walks into Oikawa’s apartment, there was water, everywhere.

Vanilla scented, rose petal lined, bubbly bath water. Everywhere.

Iwaizumi frowns, strides across the expanse of the room and slams open the bathroom door where the scent of vanilla surges over him.

In the overflowing bathtub, sits Oikawa, totally unconscious with his hair in a pink turban, chin submerged and face slowly sliding down the waterline.

Iwaizumi pinches his nose, then reaches over to pry Oikawa’s eyes open. Yep. Knocked out. Just like the first time.

He looks at the mess inundating the room, then sits down on the toilet and sighs a long deep sigh.

“Do I win?”

Iwaizumi whips his head up. In the moonlighted doorway, stands Sugawara, dressed again in the grey suit. The top button of his dress shirt is unbuttoned and he looks impeccable

Iwaizumi sighs again for measure, “I give up, just take him.”

“This doesn’t… feel like a win,” Iwaizumi watches as Sugawara strides into the bathroom, leather shoes lapping at the shallow waves, “And I’m not sure, after all’s been done, that Oikawa is the one I want to take.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen just as Sugawara bends down, meeting his lips softly. His eyes are closed and for the first time Iwaizumi has a close up of the delicate mole beneath his left eye.

When Sugawara separates tentatively, eyelashes fluttering open, Iwaizumi curls a hand around his neck and pulls him back down, other hand clinging to his waist. Sugawara gasps and Iwaizumi dives in, nipping at his lips. The kiss is heated, passionate and Iwaizumi ignores the cold moisture seeping into his socks because _damn_ is this all he ever wanted.

“I -“ Sugawara sighs, between breaths, “saw your pack, -n, in the hallway.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi opens his eyes, hand tracing circles behind Sugawara’s ear, “If you’ll have me”

“Hm,” There’s a look in Sugawara’s eyes, a look half coy and half amused. “There’s a drug lord in Costa Rica that needs to be taken out. I heard his body guards aren’t half bad.” When he speaks again, his breath ghosts over Iwaizumi’s lips, like a spring wind that promises summer. “I might need a hand.”

“Sign me up,” Iwaizumi grins, before kissing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before they elope into the sunset Iwaizumi remembers to unclog the bath and thus Oikawa lives to a ripe old age singing songs and dancing dances.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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